What I Wanted To Say
by Kisara-Rini
Summary: Johnlock drabble. Post Reichenbach Fall. John thinks about Sherlock, and what he never had a chance to say.


What I wanted to say…all those things I never had the chance to…I still can't bring myself to speak them. Barely even think them really. It's…well, it's just…_sigh_

Sherlock.

I've been visiting your grave. Almost daily. Sometimes, I imagine that I'll show up and it won't be there. The grave marker. That it was a mistake, and I won't be able to find it because it wasn't really there. That you weren't really dead. And then I'll wake up, and realize the whole thing was some horrible nightmare. I'll wake up, and you'll still be here.

221 B Baker St. Mrs. Hudson let me into the flat. It's been a while. I haven't been able to bring myself to come back here…not since, well, you know. It's too painful. The reminder of you being gone. It aches, Sherlock. It really does. And you know what? I hate you for it. I hate you for being dead. For making me watch you…die. For trying to convince me that you were a fraud. I won't believe it. I can't believe it. I know better. I know when you're acting, you know that? I do. So I can barely even believe that you're…gone.

Tell me that was an act too. That I…that this…god it hurts. Damn you. Damn you, you bastard.

_Tears well up in my eyes._ I can't stop them sometimes. I've been staying with Harry for a bit. She hears me…crying…Doesn't know what to do about it. Neither do I. When it happens.

Staring at your things cluttering the kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson hasn't touched anything. Everything's exactly as we left it. Almost. _You're not here._

I let myself into your room. It smells like you. It all does. This flat. The air. Even the bloody chairs, Sherlock. They all reek of you…it's almost too much for me to stand. I barely ghost my fingers across your sheets; they're still rumpled from when you were last sleeping beneath them. My eyes sting and I wince, closing them to shut out the tears. I don't want Mrs. Hudson to hear. I right myself with a deep breath and close your door, giving myself some privacy within your walls. Your dresser calls out to me, and I mindlessly wander over to it. God, even touching the handles of your dresser kills me. Where you've touched. Left impressions of your fingers against the grain. It's almost like I can feel your hands on them. I pull open a drawer and stare into its contents. My hands, shaking now, riffle through your socks…shirts…I even finger a scarf or two.

You made scarves look good…or, well, maybe they made you look good?

Dammit.

I take in a shuddering breath and lift a scarf out of the drawer, bringing it to my lips. I inhale your scent, which still lingers on it. Pieces of you remain here, even though you're gone. I don't think you'll mind if I steal just this little fragment of you, will you?

I wrap the scarf around my neck and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your walls with unseeing eyes, before dropping my head into my hands. Dry, soundless sobs.

Sherlock, how could you leave me alone again? Save me, just to leave me more broken then you found me? When I'm torturing myself, thinking of all that could have been…the what ifs of it all..sometimes I wonder if, somehow being able to go back, would I chose to follow you again? Knowing that it'd end this way…Would I? I would…because you were worth it…are worth it. The pain. The heartache.

I know; you can never understand what it is I'm feeling. This…this dull throbbing, tightening, constricting feeling in my chest. It's the worst kind of pain. Feeling. But it's all worth it, Sherlock. Caring. It is. Still.

Surrounded by you, your room, your scent that now clings to me, it's like I'm drowning in you. I dive beneath your covers, swimming in your sheets, feeling as if you are wrapped around me. My head on your pillow, my eyes closed tightly, I can envision you beside me here. Secure in your embrace.

What I wanted to say, Sherlock…what I never was able to tell you…what I keep trying to whenever I see your grave…

I wish I could say it now.

But I can't.

Not even here, as I rest in your bed. I can't bring myself to. Because it doesn't matter anymore. Not now that you're…

Don't be dead. Free me from this. What hurts even more than your death are all the things I never had a chance to say to you, and never will have the chance to say to you now.

Wish I had died with you.

I feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness. Being pulled under by your presence. I fall asleep to your warmth, your scent a perfume pressed against my skin and drugging me to sleep.

And as I lay here in your bed, I can almost feel your fingers caressing my face. Hear you whispering my name. My eyes open slightly to a blurry image of your form hovering over me. I smile and close my eyes. What a lovely dream that must have been. You, here with me while I sleep.

Yes, what a lovely dream.

And the last thing I hear as sleep takes me once more is still you, whispering my name.

"John."

_I love you, Sherlock._


End file.
